


if you lived here (you'd be home by now)

by padattack



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Post-The X Factor Era, non-au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:40:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24275998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/padattack/pseuds/padattack
Summary: Harry knows he’s slipping. He sees the way Louis has started to second guess each touch in public, has started to snatch his hand back when it unconsciously starts to drift in Harry’s direction. Harry tries to be good, tries to dim down his smile when Louis does something that makes him laugh, tries not to glare when someone else gets too close to him, but it’s like everything he felt before is magnified tenfold now, and if he wasn’t even good at fighting this in the first place, it feels somewhere near impossible now.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 31





	if you lived here (you'd be home by now)

They go house hunting every break they get. Harry looks up lofts and apartments while they’re traveling and bookmarks them carefully under “Bromance Bachelor Pad 2011” on his computer. When they get back to London he drags Louis around the city from one to the next, waiting for something to feel right.

Louis says yes to every apartment they look at.

In the end it doesn’t even matter because someone else picks it out for them. Paul doesn’t say anything when they ask to live together – just rolls his eyes at them and gets the paperwork set up.

The rooms come fully furnished and Harry frowns at the décor, trying to decide if they’ll be able to get away with changing the color scheme. Management already had the chandeliers and anything considered breakable removed, and the rooms – while still lavish – look a little empty. Louis laughs and calls him crazy, but it’s the first home that’s their own and Harry wants it to _feel_ like a home.

“Aw, c’mon,” Louis pouts. “I thought as long as I’m here you’re home!”

Harry scoffs. “We don’t live in a song, Louis.”

Louis drops down onto the couch, disappearing into a fluffy leopard print blanket that, wow, they’re getting rid of as soon as humanly possible. “Maybe _you_ don’t.”

Harry would protest but Louis shoots out an arm and grabs his wrist, yanking him off balance so he goes tumbling down into the blanket as well.

“This can be our home,” Louis whispers, pulling the blanket up over their heads and blinking owlishly at Harry in the darkness.

Harry bites back a smile and thinks, yeah, okay, that could work.

\--

By the second week they realize the layout of the apartment may not be exactly what they’re looking for. They’ve been there for a solid fourteen days and have yet to spend a single night in their bedrooms. It’s the first time since the X Factor that they have their own rooms, and Harry finds that he’s become so accustomed to falling asleep to the sounds of Louis’ snuffling breathing that he can’t really do without it.

They don’t talk about it, just curl up on the couches in the living room – Louis has become absurdly attached to that leopard print blanket – and talk until they drift off into silence and eventual sleep.

“What are you guys doing?” Niall asks when he comes up to have breakfast with them early one morning, before they’ve gotten up and dragged themselves to their bathrooms to get ready.

Harry squints up at the blonde boy and coughs to clear his throat. “What?”

Niall looks like he’s fighting laughter. “You know you have _beds_ , right?”

Louis shoots into a sitting position, his hair ridiculously fluffed and rumpled. “We have _beds_?” he shouts, leaping to his feet. “Good god man, why didn’t you _tell_ us?!”

Niall is outright laughing now, and Harry lets a rueful grin onto his face before scooping up a cushion from the floor and tossing it halfheartedly in Louis’ general direction.

“Honestly,” Niall giggles, “you two are ridiculous.”

By the third week they’re both sleeping in Harry’s bed – it’s big enough to fit the whole band anyway.

\--

Living with Louis but not the rest of the boys is simultaneously everything Harry had hoped and feared it would be.

It means sometimes Harry wakes up to the long tan line of Louis’ bare back against 1500 thread count Egyptian cotton and catches himself staring, but now he doesn’t have to worry about anyone else seeing. It means constantly wading through a mess of clothes and a dozen pairs of TOMs every week before the cleaners come. It means staying up late pressed together on the couch watching movies the nights they stay in and staying up even later on the nights that Louis goes out, waiting for the feel of the mattress dipping down under his weight to finally go to sleep.

It means that Harry has to deal with the fact that Louis is a clingy bastard when he’s drunk, so sometimes he wakes up with Louis’ limbs heavy and octopus-like around him, heels tucked into the backs of Harry’s knees and forehead shoved under Harry’s chin.

The first time it happens Harry is yanked out of sleep with a mouthful of Louis’ hair and a leg tucked snuggly between his thighs. He thanks every form of higher power he can think of that they’re both wearing boxers.

Louis looks quite honestly shocked when he wakes up to Harry’s mortified eyes, and when his own eyes widen in understanding Harry wants nothing more than to bury his head in the pillows and hopefully disappear into absolute nothingness.

Instead Louis glances down at where Harry has still not removed his leg, back up again and then quirks an eyebrow and says, “was it good for you too?”

Harry laughs in relief and shoves away from him, rolling his eyes as Louis winks cheerily and slips out of the bed, heading towards the door with an exaggerated swagger in his hips.

“I’m going to make tea. You might want to consider a cold shower.”

“Tease!” Harry shouts after him, and Louis wiggles his ass, throwing a flirty kiss over his shoulder.

Harry jerks off in the shower, quick and gasping soundlessly into the steady stream of water. He keeps his mind blank the whole time, but three hours later when they’re standing in front of a camera crew answering Twitter questions he can’t shake the feeling of Louis pressed up against him, of Louis’ heart beating a calm and steady rhythm against his chest.

\--

Harry has never really had a friend like Louis before. Sure, he had friends in Holmes Chapel. He’d had White Eskimo and his friends from school and he’d had a steady stream of girlfriends who filtered in and out of his life, but he’d never had anyone who he felt really _understood_ him. And then all of a sudden Louis, Zayn, Liam and Niall showed up and somewhere between Louis shoving them all into the pool on the first day and then disappearing off to the hospital at Judges Houses Harry realized that they’ve already surpassed any friendships he’s ever had.

The thing about Louis is that he’s completely unlike anyone that Harry has ever met. Being around him is addictive, and despite how much all the other boys love each other everything always seems in some part a competition for Louis’ attention. Harry can’t help but feel a little bit betrayed when Louis forgoes his company in favor of messing around with one of the other boys, even though he knows how stupid he’s being. He hates the small tinge of annoyance that springs up in him when Louis lets Niall curl up against him, or initiates a massive tickle attack on Liam just to hear him laugh, or tackles Zayn for no good reason at all.

Harry justifies it to himself as a natural reaction. He spends pretty much every waking moment with Louis, and he’s become so used to the constant touches and laughing glances that he feels off balance without them. Anyone would be uncomfortable if something they had come to rely on was suddenly missing.

The worst thing about it though is that Harry isn’t even sure Louis is aware of what he’s doing. Everyone laughs about how codependent they’ve become and Louis grins and plays along, slings an arm over Harry’s shoulder and chirps, “of course we are! How could I ever live without Curly?” but Harry doesn’t think Louis is aware of just how true his words ring at times.

Of course Harry realizes that it’s probably not very healthy to be so dependent on someone else, but he can’t help it. Being around Louis is infectious. Having Louis’ attention on him makes literally every other instance of their insane lives pale in comparison. Every time Louis does something to annoy Harry he manages to do something else that catches him entirely by surprise to make up for it. Three days after the single comes out they’re getting ready for an interview and Louis makes Harry stand still for seven minutes while he demonstrates all the different ways he’s learned to tie a bowtie. On Liam’s birthday he talks the rest of the boys into staying in and celebrating instead of going out to a bar so Harry won’t be left out. And then there are the small things – like the way he slides his hand up Harry’s back to rest on his neck while they’re posing for pictures, or the way he always unlocks their front door and then steps back to let Harry go in first – that get to Harry maybe even more than the conscious gestures do.

They may have only known each other for a little over a year, but Harry honestly can’t imagine his life without Louis.

\-- 

Sometimes Harry thinks Louis misses home even more than Niall does.

Louis calls Doncaster every night before bed. He talks to each of his sisters, asks them how their day was and if they’ve finished their homework. After they’ve all passed the phone around it gets handed to his mum.

Harry likes listening to Louis talk to Jay. He likes the way Louis’ voice goes soft and comfortable and the way he recounts the details of the day in a way that makes even the most mundane moments sound exciting.

Most nights they sit on Harry’s bed while Louis talks and Harry pretends to watch the TV on mute or messes around with his phone, interjecting occasional comments that Louis dutifully relates to Jay.

There are nights that Louis gently disentangles himself from the sheets and moves outside to talk on the balcony, sliding the glass doors closed behind him as he goes. Harry never asks what it is that Louis doesn’t want him to hear, but Louis always seems to feel guilty for it anyway, slipping into bed with him when he gets back inside and wrapping his arms around Harry tighter than normal. The way he presses his nose into Harry’s throat is his way of apologizing. Harry isn’t sure why Louis is under the impression that he could ever do anything that would make Harry angry with him.

\-- 

They get a rare day off and the boys almost cry with relief. Harry loves his job, he does, can’t think of anything he would rather be doing _ever_ , but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t get exhausting.

Louis has been running on tea and junk food all week, tossing in his sleep at night and alternating between a strange zombie like silence and energizer bunny like liveliness during the day. He sleeps past half two and shuffles into the living room where Harry is watching cartoons when the sun is already high in the sky and slanting in through the windows.

“Morning, sunshine,” Harry snorts, watching as Louis blinks blearily against the brightness. “Sleep well?”

Louis makes a disgruntled groan type noise and waves a hand in what Harry takes is meant to be an answer.

“There’s a One Tree Hill marathon on,” Harry mentions, reaching for the remote already. Louis halts on his way into the kitchen and rotates back towards Harry, letting himself fall over the back of the couch and flop into his lap.

“Lou,” Harry laughs, shoving him over.

Louis whines and presses his weight down against Harry, forehead pinching together in sleepy stubbornness. “Stay,” he commands, voice rough from disuse.

Harry quits struggling, sighing as Louis relaxes against him, twisting until he’s comfortable.

“Happy now?” Harry asks, scrunching a hand through Louis’ hair.

“Hmm,” Louis hums, “I like this episode.”

Harry had never watched an episode of One Tree Hill in his life before he met Louis.

“Yeah,” he grins. “Me too.”

Louis falls back asleep between Nathan throwing a guitar in the bonfire and Lucas telling Brooke that he’s the guy for her and one day she’s going to realize it. Harry worms himself off of the couch as slowly as possible, inching himself out from under Louis and sliding a pillow under Louis’ head in his place.

It doesn’t take him long to get the ingredients for dinner ready.

Working at the bakery in Holmes Chapel had never been anything more than a way to get a little extra pocket money, but Harry has come to like cooking all the same. He likes getting to be silent and focused entirely on one thing. He likes starting everything from scratch and watching it mold into something delicious and new under his hands.

By the time Louis finally wakes up, Harry has the table set. He’s just getting the bottle of champagne settled in a tub of ice when Louis calls out for him.

“In the dining room!” Harry shouts back, stepping back to eye his work and biting his lip critically. He darts forward and rearranges one of the candles, straightens out the forks and knives and then pulls back quickly when Louis wanders into the room.

The way Louis’ eyes widen is more than enough to make the hours Harry spent sweating away in the kitchen worth it.

Louis glances around the room like he’s looking for a camera, or the other boys, something to explain.

“Are we celebrating something?” he asks slowly, eyes finally coming to rest on Harry.

Harry shrugs, feeling a blush tingle up his neck and across his ears.

“You looked like you could use a good meal.”

Louis looks skeptical. “And the candles?”

Harry quirks an eyebrow at him and shrugs. “A proper meal needs ambiance.”

Louis breaks into a smile, wrinkling his nose at Harry and laughing as he strides over to drop down into a seat.

“Darling,” he says. “You shouldn’t have.”

Harry ducks his head, feeling absurdly pleased by the reaction, and settles into the chair across from him.

Halfway through the meal Louis hooks his ankles together with Harry’s under the table, and neither of them can seem to stop smiling.

\--

Harry goes on dates and kisses girls goodnight on the front stoops of their houses. He takes everything one day at a time, tries not to feel like he’s lying to everyone because he can’t help but think that everything he does has an expiration date.

It’s just. Sometimes he looks at these girls with their shining perfect hair and their big beautiful eyes and long tan legs and thinks – _you’re perfect. you are actually perfect._ But at the same time he’s thinking that he’s wondering how they think they’re going to fit into his life. He’s been in five different countries in the past week alone, slept in more hotel rooms than he cares to count, said goodbye in languages he doesn’t even know how to speak. Sometimes he looks at these girls and wonders how they expect to ever compete with his boys – Zayn and Liam and Niall and _Louis_ – who have been there for everything, who will _always_ be there for everything. How is he supposed to make them understand that no matter how hard they try they will never be as important to him as his boys – that there is a part of him that they will never be able to touch.

“It’s a different type of love is all,” Liam says with a shrug.

Louis kicks his leg out and hits Harry in the knee without looking up from his phone. “I don’t give a fuck what kind of love it is, you’ll never love anyone more than me, right Harry?”

Harry snorts. “Never.”

It should probably scare him more than it does – how much he means it.

\--

Eleanor and Louis come back from a party one night, blatantly drunk.

Harry is already in bed, texting Niall about their plans for the upcoming few days. He pauses when he hears the front door open, and then there are voices and the sound of someone bumping into the wall along the corridor leading to Harry and Louis’ bedrooms.

“Hey, hey,” Louis is saying, voice strangled like he’s trying not to laugh. “You alright?”

Eleanor is laughing, high and hiccuping until Louis joins in, and the noise of their footsteps stop, like they’re just stood in the middle of the hallway laughing.

Harry sets his phone down and bites down on a smile at the image. He stares up at the ceiling and listens as the sounds of laughter die down, and then out of the silence Louis lets out a hitched gasp.

Harry feels his heart stutter in his chest, like his pulse has missed a beat and then picked up double time just to make up for it.

Louis and Eleanor have made it all the way to Louis’ bedroom by the time Harry’s brain unscrambles itself enough to really understand what is going on.

He can’t hear what Louis is saying, but Harry can just make out the sound of his voice, low and playful through the walls.

There’s something familiar about the way Louis is talking to Eleanor – something that makes Harry’s heart pound wildly.

He yanks his iPod off the bedside table, shoves his headphones onto his ears and squeezes his eyes shut.

In the morning Eleanor comes out in her jeans and Louis’ t-shirt from last night, heels dangling from her right hand.

“Morning,” Harry says cheerfully, “fancy a bowl of cereal? I would think you need some reenergizing from the sounds of last night.”

She flushes a sensational shade of red and snatches her bag from where it’d been tossed onto the couch earlier.

“Cheers, Styles,” she says, already moving towards the door. “I’ve actually got to get back to Manchester. Always a pleasure, though.”

“ _Yeah_ it was!” Harry shouts after her, snorting into his glass of milk when she flips him off over her shoulder.

Louis comes moseying in an hour later, hair ruffled and limbs looking loose and easy. His eyes widen in surprise when he realizes Eleanor isn’t there.

“She skip out on me?”

Harry smirks. “Stole your shirt, too.”

Louis looks slightly caught off guard for a moment, then rather pleased. “I feel used,” he beams. “This must be what being used feels like!”

“You dirty, dirty whore,” Harry grins fondly. “Want some bacon?”

\--

Louis has the fingers of one hand wrapped around the neck of his beer bottle and the other resting against Harry’s neck. “C’mon boys, you don’t _really_ plan on sitting here in your fancy little booth all night, do you?”

Niall is laughing, tipsy already as he sways into Zayn’s side and then back into Liam’s.

“We’ve only just got here!” Liam protests, tilting away from the slap that Louis aims at his head. “At least let everyone get a proper buzz going first.”

Louis shakes his own head in disappointment. “You’ve changed, man,” he intones seriously. “You’ve really changed.” And then he’s back to bouncing on the heels of his feet, energy seemingly brimming up under his skin. “Harry?”

Harry looks out at the crowd of sweaty people throwing themselves about to the music and winces. “Give me a few minutes?”

Louis pouts and smacks his bottle down onto the table. “Fuck that.”

And then he’s off, hopping over the rope of the VIP section and threading his way into the crowd and Harry is laughing, pulling his drink to his lips and shaking off the burn as it goes down.

Fifteen minutes and two drinks later Liam is snorting into his Diet Coke and Harry thumps his back enthusiastically, not getting that Liam is trying to speak until he chokes out – “ _Louis.”_

Harry swings his head around and sweeps the dance floor with his eyes until they finally find Louis – hair damp and hanging into his eyes, mouth open in a laugh and shoulders shaking with it. At first Harry doesn’t see what it is that set Liam off – too caught up in how Louis seems to suck in the brightness of everything around him just to radiate it all out of his smile – and then he notices the guy Louis seems to be talking to.

He’s tall – taller than Louis, six foot at the least – with dark hair and an easy smile. He says something that makes Louis laugh again, looks pleased at the reaction and ducks his head down to whisper something else into Louis’ ear, one hand coming up to cup the back of Louis’ head and hold him still.

Something hot and ugly flares up in Harry’s stomach and he feels a sudden burst of restless energy clawing against his chest.

The stranger and Louis are dancing now, pulling faces at each other and laughing as they move. Harry sucks in a breath as the boy grabs Louis’ hand, spins him a hundred-eighty degrees and tugs him so Louis’ back is pressed up against his chest. Louis looks surprised for a beat and then, inexplicably, his head dips down, a tiny smile starting on his lips.

Harry can hear Zayn choking on his drink and Liam gasping “oh my _god_ ” as Niall barks laughter but he doesn’t even look at them, just shoots to his feet and without thinking pushes his way out of the VIP area, forcing himself through the crowd of drunken writhing bodies until he reaches Louis. There’s something about the way Louis looks pressed up against another guy, hips moving with the beat and sweat gleaming on his collar bones, hair pushed carelessly to the side that makes Harry freeze and all the words he hasn’t thought about die in his throat.

Someone stumbles into him from behind and he trips forward, crashing into Louis and then pulling quickly back, mouth gaping as Louis’ eyes widen.

“Harry!” Louis beams, “where have you been?”

Harry can’t seem to get his lungs to work.

They’ve stopped dancing but the boy is still standing directly behind Louis, one hand on his waist, thumb over Louis’ hipbone. Louis either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. The thought feels like acid in Harry’s throat. He glares pointedly at the hand until the boy lifts his eyebrows and steps back, hands held out to the sides like he’s trying to prove he’s not a threat.

Louis doesn’t seem to realize that anything is wrong. He’s shouting over the music, introducing Harry to the boy whose name Harry doesn’t bother to remember, urging him to _come on, don’t be lazy, dance with us_!

“I’m not feeling well,” Harry hears himself blurt, isn’t sure where it came from but he might as well run with it. “I think I’m gonna head home.”

Louis immediately sobers, his forehead pinching together in concern as he steps toward Harry, hand coming to settle against his elbow. “Are you alright? Do you want me to go with you?”

Harry hesitates. “I mean, I don’t want to ruin your night…”

“No,” Louis says instantly, frowning. “Give me a second, I’ll just grab my coat.”

He turns towards the other boy who smiles and shrugs, “hey, I get it. You got my number though, yeah? We should hang out sometime.”

“Mhmm,” Louis hums distractedly, already turning back to guide Harry over to the other boys. Harry breathes out through his nose, doesn’t say anything until they’re in the cab heading back to their apartment and he has his head on Louis’ shoulder, Louis’ arm wrapped around him and one of his hands in Harry’s hair, smoothing it back from his forehead.

“Thanks.”

Louis’ fingers still and then start up again, scrunching his curls slightly. “Of course,” his voice is soft like he doesn’t want to risk causing Harry any pain. “Whatever you need, Hazza, I’m here for you.”

\--

They go to a theme park in the United States and Harry somehow gets talked into going on the biggest roller coaster there. His legs feel wobbly the whole time they’re waiting in line and when they finally get strapped in he changes his mind, hollers to be let out but it’s too late and they’re moving already.

Louis is laughing next to him, breathless and loud and Harry thinks he’s going to throw up, he really genuinely does.

“Put your arms up!” Louis is shouting, waving his arms wildly over his head as they creep to the top of an alarmingly steep slope.

Harry would tell Louis that there’s not a chance in hell he’s loosening his grip from the safety bar but he doesn’t think he can unclench his teeth enough to speak.

“C’mon!” Louis is still whooping, “don’t be a _pussy_ , Hazza!”And then he’s reaching out and prying Harry’s right hand from the metal, fighting it up into the air.

“Let go!” Harry is shouting, and they’ve reached the top now and why did Harry let himself get talked into this, who told him sitting at the _front_ would be best? “I’m serious, Louis,” he yells, not amused in the slightest when Louis refuses to stop. “Let me _go_!”

But it’s too late again and all of a sudden they’re peaking and inching over and then they _drop_ and Harry is holding onto Louis’ hand with every ounce of strength in his body and Louis is laughing and Harry’s lungs don’t have enough air to scream but his heart is beating wildly in his chest, pounding _if we die right here right now I love you I love you always I love you._

\--

When it finally happens they’re both stone cold sober, and mostly Harry can’t even believe it took this long.

It’s the night after their third stop on the tour and Harry is near passed out boneless on the hotel bed. He’s fighting to keep his eyes open, can’t remember ever being this exhausted. Louis comes into the room fresh from his shower, water dripping onto the towel around his waist and hair pushed back off his forehead the way it never is dry. He crawls onto the bed and shakes his head like a dog, splattering drops onto Harry’s face.

“Why,” Harry moans, closing his eyes but otherwise too tired to move. “Why would you ever do that.”

Louis laughs, settling on his stomach and propping himself up on his elbows. “C’mon, Harold, we’re pop stars! We should be out celebrating!”

Harry rolls his head over to look at Louis, both eyebrows arched in disbelief. “You really have enough energy to go out?” It’s effort enough just getting the words out.

Louis starts to nod his head and then pauses – tilts it to the side like he’s thinking and then drops down so his cheek is on the mattress next to Harry’s. “Alright, so maybe we shouldn’t go out,” he admits, “but we could at least have a drink. Or maybe some cake? I could do with a cookie. Hell, a nice cuppa Yorkshire would do it for me at this point. We could rally the troops and make Liam fix up a pot for us before – ”

It’s then that Harry kisses him. Later he won’t be able to remember what makes him do it, he’ll just remember stretching out his neck, eyes already closed and heartbeat slow and steady in his chest as he presses their lips together – he’ll remember staying there – neither of them breathing for a long moment before he finally pulls back, turning his head up towards the ceiling again without opening his eyes.

Louis doesn’t make a sound and Harry will freak out in the morning, will shut himself in the bathroom and turn the shower on and curl himself in the corner shaking with his arms around his legs, but for now he just breathes, thinks about how he has kissed Louis and time hasn’t stopped, the world hasn’t ended.

“Bed it is, then,” Louis’ voice says, and Harry can feel him moving, pulling Harry’s shoes off and working the blanket out from under him to pull over him instead. “Night, Hazza.” His voice is soft and quiet and Harry wants to lean into it – let it wrap around him and carry him off to sleep but he is so tired he can’t move and then there are the sounds of Louis climbing into the other bed and after that there is silence.

\--

They’ve never talked about it before, is the thing. It’s been there from the start, more or less from the moment Harry stood next to Louis at the urinals during the X Factor auditions and felt some of his nerves ease as he laughed at the other boy’s hushed impersonation of Simon’s stern face. There’s always been something unspoken between them, a pull that made Louis dig his fingers into Harry’s skin anytime they were less than three feet from each other, a thickness to the air between them that Harry _knows_ Louis feels too, even if Louis is more prone to easing it out with a lighthearted jab or joke to direct the tension elsewhere. 

It’s felt inevitable, really, that something was going to happen eventually. If the connection between them was instantaneous to start with, it’s only been growing between the show and now, built up by all the time they spend living in each other’s pockets, all the days on the road and nights locked up in hotel rooms, all the experiences they share that nobody else but the boys have the ability to understand. They are together constantly, inseparable both at work and at home, stuck in an ever intensifying loop of tickle fights on the bed that get just a little too breathless, fingers lingering against each other’s bared skin in public, laughter catching between them as their eyes meet across a group of people. Harry is just surprised that he lasted this long without breaking - is equally as surprised that Louis let it happen at all.

It doesn’t change anything. They don’t know anything now that they didn’t know before. They still don’t talk about it, but it’s been made abundantly clear by the way Louis carries on the next morning that they’re just going to soldier on like nothing ever happened. Things go right back to normal, and Harry eventually stops freezing in his tracks every time Louis uses a hand on his waist to direct him, or tucks Harry under his armpit even though Harry is far too tall for it and has to scrunch his shoulders down as Louis rocks up onto his toes. Harry is just so grateful none of that has changed he doesn’t even bother being upset that he doesn’t get more.

\--

But. But.

“Harry, have you seen the grey hat?” Louis’ voice is shouted and rushed.

Harry slides into the kitchen in his socks, slamming to a stop against the counter. “The one you wore to sound check? I think Zayn has it.”

Louis sticks his head into the room, frowning when he catches sight of Harry. “Would you put your trousers on? We were supposed to be at Niall’s fifteen minutes ago!”

Harry twists his hips, wiggling his eyebrows. “C’mon, you know you love it.”

Louis snorts.

“Besides,” Harry continues, hopping up onto the counter and grabbing a banana out of the fruit bowl. “It’s not like you’re anywhere near ready.”

“Excuse me,” Louis shoots back, stepping out from the doorway into full view. “ _Some_ of us are actually prepared on – Harry? Are you alright?”

Louis is wearing Harry’s jacket. Louis is wearing Harry’s jacket and it shouldn’t be a big deal – shouldn’t matter at _all_ because they steal each other’s shit all the time, wear clothes like each other’s closets are some communal One Direction wardrobe. But Louis is wearing Harry’s jacket with the sleeves pushed up and the tag with Harry’s name scribbled on it sticking up out of the back and Harry feels like all the air has been vacuumed right out of the room – like this _matters_.

“Harry?” Louis looks concerned now.

“Nothing,” Harry says hastily, dropping down to his feet and moving towards his room. “I’m just – I’m gonna grab my trousers.”

He stands with his back pressed against his bedroom door and tries to even out his breathing for a solid five minutes, and when he goes out and Louis is waiting for him with a new glint in his eyes, Harry feels all the control he’s been building up fly right out the window.

Louis wears the jacket three times that week. Harry feels something twist in his gut every time.

\--

One night Harry is at a party over at Ed’s house. He’s pleasantly drunk and swaying mindlessly in the middle of the living room – oblivious to Ed’s incredulous laughter – when he sees a flash of dark hair and stripes out of the corner of his eye.

Something jumps painfully in his chest and he spins, wavering unsteadily on his feet – sidestepping as he moves quickly toward the figure.

“Hey!” he says, louder than he intended. “Hey, when did you get – ”

The figure turns – brown eyes, stubbled chin – not Louis.

“Oh,” Harry says, a strange plummeting feeling of disappointment in his stomach. “Sorry, mate. Thought you were someone else.”

The party goes on for a few more hours, and Harry sits on a couch as some guitarist talks at him, spends the rest of the night checking his phone and trying to shake the feeling that he’s missing something.

He doesn’t fight the sigh of relief that eases out of him when he finally gets home. Instead he kicks his shoes off just inside the door and slides on his socks over towards Louis’ room, intent on dragging him out for a quick late night snack.

When he gets close enough Harry hears the sound of voices slipping out through the cracked door of Louis’ room and he drops his chin onto his chest before twisting on his heel and heading back towards his own room.

An hour later he’s woken by the cool air that sneaks under the covers as they’re lifted momentarily off of him.

“Louis?” Harry stutters. “What - ?”

Louis is warm, eyes barely cracked slits and voice sleep rough. “El left,” he murmurs, tugging Harry closer to him and burrowing into his side. “Bed felt too empty.”

Harry wraps an arm around Louis and clenches his teeth together until his jaw aches.

\--

Harry hooks up with girls in dressing rooms, in cars, bathrooms at parties and dark corners of clubs. It’s always quick and discrete – her against a wall or pressed into a tight cramped backseat, mouth open and thighs quivering as he slides his hand up, up, up until she’s panting and trembling against him. 

He’s never sure whether they come from his fingers or his fame. 

He throws out the phone numbers slipped to him by male fans, keeps his eyes on pretty girls with long blonde hair when they go out at night, directs any drunken affection toward Liam, Zayn, Niall, and Louis. Harry may be a fool, but he isn’t stupid. He knows what would happen if a camera were to catch him holding hands with a boy, if someone were to leak something to the press. He’s seen the way Louis has started to roll his eyes at the incessant questions about their relationships with each other, how he bristles at the insulation that there’s some conspiracy they’re all in on. Harry knows without knowing how that the quickest way to scare Louis off would be to lend any weight to those rumors.

He doesn’t care if he has to clamp down _hard_ on the pieces of himself that he feels like he’s only now starting to understand. He knows he’s not missing out on anything out there - Louis is the only one that he wants. Harry won’t lose him, it doesn’t matter what the cost.

\--

The thing with Caroline is mostly an accident.

She’s fit as fuck and Harry has always had a bit of a crush on her, but he’s never actually considered it would go further than a few cheeky kisses. At least not until she’s sat next to him at the X Factor tour launch party and she pinches his arm where it’s resting over her shoulders and murmurs, “is there a reason Louis keeps staring at us?”

It’s stupid and petty and completely unfair, but if that’s the reason he kisses her that night nobody has to know but him.

She is gorgeous and funny and her hair begs for his fingers tangled in it. Harry kisses her with palms pressed to her cheeks and her hands curled against his hipbones.

“ _Harry_ ,” she laughs when they break apart.

“Caroline!” he beams back at her.

There are catcalls and wolf whistles from everyone within a ten foot radius. Liam’s arms around Niall look like the only thing holding him up he’s laughing so hard.

Harry slides his hand down to Caroline’s neck. “Wanna get a cab?”

She watches him silently for a moment – smile still tilting at the corners of her lips. “Yeah,” she finally says, “yeah, okay.”

She kisses him goodnight when the cab pulls up to her house. When he gets back to the apartment Louis is sitting in the dark on the couch, channel surfing aimlessly. He looks up in surprise when Harry walks in.

“No Caroline?”

Harry shrugs, kicking his shoes away and stripping off his pants before he drops down beside Louis.

“No Caroline.”

Louis bumps their shoulders together amicably. “Better luck next time, mate.”

Harry tucks his fingers into his armpits and settles his head on Louis’ shoulder, closing his eyes as Louis drapes the blanket over their legs.

\--

Louis is already awake when Harry gets up the next morning.

“Hey,” he says, looking up from his cup of tea. “Sleep alright?”

Harry slumps down at the stool next to him and drops his forehead onto the counter, closing his eyes and letting the cool marble soothe the headache thrumming through him.

He feels light fingers on the side of his neck, and lifts his hand to feel whatever it is Louis is poking at.

“What – ?”

Louis coughs, still staring at the curve of his collarbone. “You’ve – um – you’ve got a bit of a love bite, there.”

They sit there in silence for a moment, staring at each other, Harry still tracing over the bruise and Louis’ eyes tracking it.

“Well done,” Louis finally says, too loud and cheery. “That’s fantastic. The boys…they’ll be so proud of you, finally pulling Caroline.”

He’s still staring at the hickey, and Harry doesn’t know what that means.

\--

There’s about a three week period where Louis sleeps at Zayn’s almost every night. After the first week Zayn ends up buying a futon, and Harry doesn’t get it.

“We literally live down the hall from him,” he mentions to Niall once. “It can’t be that difficult to drag his drunk arse a few extra steps to his own bed.”

Niall is picking his way through a sandwich, eating around everything that is tainted with feta and grimacing horribly whenever he accidentally bites into some.

“They haven’t even been going out every night, though,” he mumbles through a mouthful, staring sadly down at a piece of chicken liberally doused in cheese.

Harry feels something weird and heavy drop in his chest. “What?”

Niall glances up, looking confused. “What? Oh, Zayn and Lou – yeah, I’m pretty sure they’ve been staying in a good amount. Liam says they’re _talking_.”

The thought of Harry being left back in the room while Louis and Zayn went out and partied every night wasn’t a good one to start with, but the idea that this whole time they’ve just been sitting in Zayn’s apartment _talking_ is somehow worse.

Harry walks around for days feeling like this is it, Louis has finally decided he can’t handle Harry being all over him all the time, is done pretending that they could be friends despite the stupid obvious obsession Harry has with him, except Louis doesn’t act any differently than he normally does. He still sits with his arm around Harry’s shoulders in the van and makes fun of him as much as humanly possible in front of the cameras, and smiles at him in that way that makes Harry feel like he’s been sucker punched in the gut.

The only other explanation, Harry figures, is that if it has nothing to do with him, it must be about Zayn.

He spends an inordinate amount of time watching the two of them every time they interact, but nothing seems to have changed there either.

“You know you’re being an idiot, right?” Niall asks him.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Harry mumbles.

It’s just strange, that’s all. Harry has got so used to having Louis around when they are home. He’s cooking for one now, and he keeps getting the quantities wrong in half-muffled hope that Louis won’t be having pizza at Zayn’s that night. Harry’s going to get fat and it’ll be all Louis’s fault.

Added to that is the fact he feels stupidly excluded, Liam and Niall both seeming to know more about what’s happening than he does.

In the end his childish curiosity and fidgety frustration get the better of him. He waits until an obligatory hour that Louis and Zayn could reasonably be assumed to have gone out clubbing, before padding down the corridor and knocking on the door.

Louis is the one to open it, a laugh halting halfway out of his throat in a weird croak as he sees Harry on the other side of the threshold, thrusting a casserole in his direction.

“Here,” Harry says. “I don’t know what’s so secret that I’m not invited, but at least eat this so I can rest assured you’re both not dying of cholesterol.”

Louis’s face goes from stunned to surprised to doe-eyed sadness. “Harry-” he starts, but Harry has already turned on his heel, not wanting to hear it.

There’s a horrid lump in his throat.

He crawls into bed, duvet over his head. 

Louis doesn’t come back that night, but when Harry wakes up it’s to the smell of burning toast.

“I tried,” Louis says when Harry comes into the kitchen to find him. He’s cutting the toast into soldiers to accompany the boiled eggs in spotted egg holders on two plates. There are blotches of color on his cheekbones that Harry would think meant he was blushing if he didn’t know that Louis never got shy enough to blush. 

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Louis says. “I cut the burned bits off.”

\--

The next time it happens is after Niall’s birthday party, and this time they _are_ drunk. Harry is stumbling and laughing and Louis is trying his best to keep them upright but he might be more drunk than Harry is – certainly _looks_ it, hair wildly out of place, every fifth word slurred, stumbled on, or halted mid-way through, one shoe dangling from his belt by way of Zayn’s tie (courtesy of Liam, secured there with a firm _keep track of your shit and_ behave _, would you, you crazy sea-monkey_. Harry doesn’t know where the sea-monkey thing came from. Maybe that’s not what Liam had said).

“Key, key, key,” Harry chants, one hand fisted in Louis’ shirt and the other trying to stop the wall from falling down on them.

“Gottcha – got gottit,” Louis is mumbling nonsensically, pushing against the knob, and Harry laughs, yelps in surprise when the door spills open and they go tumbling through into the apartment, landing boneless and unharmed in a heap on the floor. “Your hair, good sir,” Louis seems to be saying, mock posh and sophisticated, “tastes _revolting_.”

He sounds ridiculous, looks even more ridiculous with Harry’s bangs falling into his mouth, tongue scraping against teeth in an attempt to get it out. For some reason Harry doesn’t think to just pull away. Instead he rolls over so he’s lying fully on top of Louis, tilts his neck downwards and rubs his hair obnoxiously in Louis’ face.

Louis’ protests are shouted but muffled, and the door is still open but Harry is too preoccupied with the way Louis’ chest is heaving beneath him to care.

Hands are scrambling at Harry’s shoulders and he doesn’t have the strength to fight off Louis – probably never will – so it’s really no surprise when Louis gives one hard shove and twist and suddenly it’s Harry on his back, Louis sitting victorious on his stomach.

“Get off,” Harry says, but his hands are tight on Louis’ biceps and he doesn’t really mean it.

It’s fluid, almost natural when Louis leans down – Harry arching up to meet him already – and then they are kissing, frantic and messy and with no finesse only tongues and teeth and Louis’ hands on Harry’s shoulders pushing him down and Harry’s hands on his elbows pulling him in, closer down until they’re pressed together again from nose to toe – shoe caught between them – and Harry feels like he’s drowning in it, feels like he never wants to come up for air, like he doesn’t care if this is it if this is the end because it’s _Louis_ and in his own twisted logic that means whatever is happening, whatever’s about to happen is alright it’s okay Louis is his best mate he wouldn’t want to be here with anybody else. He’s kissed Louis before and survived.

“Bed,” someone pants – maybe Harry, he can’t think straight enough to know – only knows enough to kick the door shut as they drag themselves up, Louis tugging Harry further into the apartment, stopping to press him up against the kitchen counter, the refrigerator, let himself be shoved against the bathroom door, all the while kissing Harry until his whole body is humming from it, drunken haze narrowing down to just this.

Louis’ hands dug deep into the hair at the back of his head. Louis’ teeth quick and darting against the skin of his jaw.

It’s been too long since Harry last got off with another person – vague memories of soft hands and smoky eyes the only thing he has left. It’s been so long and Louis feels so good, all tight lean muscle and firm grip and Harry can’t seem to get any air, only breathes out _please_ and _yes_ and _Louis, Louis, Louis._

\--

They both get splitting hangovers the whole next day, to the point that they barely move from their respective bathrooms, let alone say a word to each other, but when the day slides back into darkness Louis throws on a cap and hands Harry a beanie, shakes his keys in Harry’s face and they sneak out past the paps, slip downstairs and into Louis’ car and drive and drive for miles. Harry asks where they’re going but Louis doesn’t tell him, just evades and weaves around the question the way he always does when he isn’t sure what the answer is.

When Louis finally kills the engine they’re on the side of some narrow cobblestone street on the edge of the city and Louis sits with both hands on the steering wheel, head forward. Harry doesn’t say anything, but he’s almost vibrating with nerves, can’t remember the last time Louis was this still.

After too long Louis bites his lip and says, voice strained, “it’s not _fair_.”

Harry isn’t sure which aspect of their fucked up lives he’s talking about, but he hums softly anyway, contemplates whether Louis will bat him away if Harry tries to hold his hand.

“It’s not fair, but - ” Louis says again, taking a deep shuddering breath and finally turning to look at Harry, “Harry, I _can’t_.”

There’s no mistaking what he’s talking about now. “Right,” Harry says blankly, because his mind feels devastatingly numb and that’s the only thing he can think of.

Louis seems to crumble after that, face twisting miserably and then he’s resting his forehead against the steering wheel and Harry is shifting uncomfortably over the emergency break, wrapping his arms around Louis and pressing as close as he can get.

He doesn’t have it in him to be stubborn when Louis is like this. Just tightens his arms and clamps his eyes shut, hard. Tries not to remember how he’d kissed the skin under his cheek not twenty-four hours earlier. “It’s okay, Lou,” he whispers into the curve of Louis’ shoulder, “whatever you need, it’s okay.”

Louis smells like expensive cologne, mint car freshener, and everything Harry will never be able to give up. He drives them home and they don’t mention it again.

\--

This isn’t going to be alright.

Louis brushes a hand over Harry’s nipple during an interview – tweaks it with a cheeky smile because even after everything Louis is still _Louis_ – and all of a sudden Harry’s mind is filled with images of Louis on his knees, lips red and wet with saliva as he sucks bruises into Harry’s thighs, Louis arching up on the sheets of Harry’s bed, head thrown back and sweat glistening on the long smooth slant of his neck, Louis’ eyes, slow blinking and sleepy as he presses himself against Harry’s side, fingers tracing winding patterns along his stomach.

Harry spends the rest of the interview shifting uncomfortably on his stool, pressing the heel of his palm against his crotch and praying to god the video is being shot only waist up.

This isn’t like the first time they kissed. Harry knows now that he doesn’t have it in him to fight this - he can feel the way the want thrums through him when Louis sweeps dark eyes in his direction - he _knows now_ what it feels like to have Louis pressed tight on top of him, shaking hands maneuvering Harry exactly where he wants him, mouth burning, teeth clenched like he’s still trying to bite down on all the words Harry already knows he won’t say. There’s no going back from that. 

Harry can’t think half the time, he’s too busy wondering if it’s going to happen again, if Louis is going to roll over and kiss him in the dead of the night, too busy remembering the way Louis had trembled, had let Harry push insistently against him, desperate to be closer. He’s useless when Louis is in the same room, keeps zoning out, eyes going glazed and unfocused until Louis snaps in his face, scolds him for dozing off with a real warning in the pitch of his voice that shames Harry to momentary attention.

Harry knows he’s slipping. He sees the way Louis has started to second guess each touch in public, has started to snatch his hand back when it unconsciously starts to drift in Harry’s direction. Harry tries to be good, tries to dim down his smile when Louis does something that makes him laugh, tries not to glare when someone else gets too close to him, but it’s like everything he felt before is magnified tenfold now, and if he wasn’t even good at fighting this in the first place, it feels somewhere near impossible now. 

\--

They go to too many parties, is the problem. If all they did was work Harry might be able to keep a lid on it, what with how exhausting their schedule is, but they’re famous now and it seems like every other night there’s a new invitation to some swaray the boys can’t possibly miss.

Harry knows it’s dangerous territory, knows when he gets a few drinks in him he has a tendency to get grabby, to want to wrap Louis up and bare his teeth in a snarl at anyone who tries to get between them. But this is a party Liam is throwing, and he’d insisted they all be there, and Harry at least feels safe enough in Liam’s apartment to get properly smashed without being afraid someone is going to snap a few pictures and sell them to the paps.

He’s right on the wrong side of drunk, the contents of his stomach sloshing dangerously around as he moves through the house, fingers scraping across the wall to help sort out his dismal balance.

He’s just thinking about heading for a bathroom when he stumbles into the kitchen and Louis appears in front of him at the counter, lining up a shot and sucking it down. He’s clearly drunk, and he’s got that wild shine to his eyes that Harry wants to bottle up and keep forever. Harry’s heartbeat picks up instantly.

“Drinking on your own?” he tsks, grabbing the second shot Louis has lined up and swallowing it down in one gulp.

Louis scoffs. “Zayny was here. Left a few minutes ago.” 

Harry coughs harshly at the burn in his throat, and Louis’ eyes crinkle into a laugh. “Alright there, Haz?” he beams mockingly, and he’s got one hand on Harry’s bicep. Harry leans into it and almost topples over, laughs uproariously as Louis staggers in surprise, setting the bottle of liquor down so he can support Harry with both hands.

“Louis,” Harry says, and he means to say something else, something about the party or the people or how he might be waking up in a pool of his own vomit in the morning, but instead he’s pulling Louis closer, fingers of one hand spanning Louis’ waist and the other settling on his jaw.

“Alright?” Louis repeats, smiling now in a quiet amused kind of way that makes Harry _want_.

“Yeah,” he says, glancing down at Louis’ lips, and then in one motion he’s pushing forward, forehead against Louis’ and hands tightening, tipping Louis’ head back so he has a better angle. Harry slides them into a corner, blocking out the rest of the party with his shoulders and shielding Louis from view. They’re both shaking just a little bit and Harry is oh-so willing to blame it on the alcohol, on their proximity to the thundering speakers, on anything but the way his heart is hammering in his chest just because he’s got one hand on Louis’ waist and the other brushing the soft skin behind his ear.

“Fuck,” Louis giggles, swaying on his feet as Harry tips forward again and presses their mouths together, hot and damp and sloppy. Louis is still laughing, so Harry bites sharply at his lower lip and then deepens the kiss when Louis gasps. “Harry,” Louis murmurs, pulling his head back and pinching Harry’s sides when he whines in protest. “Harry, we’re in semi-public.”

“Half the people here think we’re fucking already,” Harry mumbles dismissively, moving his lips to Louis’ neck. Louis groans, fingers tightening on Harry’s sides. Harry pushes into him encouragingly, feels like he’s gaining ground when Louis nuzzles his face into the side of Harry’s head, hands skimming lightly down the buttons of Harry’s shirt.

There’s a sudden shout of laughter from the next room over and Louis spasms like he’s been shot. Like he’s remembered who they are and where they are. 

“Harry, stop,” he says, and Harry immediately pulls back, rolling his lips between his teeth in an effort to keep them off of Louis’ skin, arms still boxing Louis against the wall. “Fuck,” Louis mutters, digging the palms of his hands over his eyes like he’s trying to wake himself up. He’s not smiling anymore. He squints at Harry, forces a laugh that sounds hollow and dry and says, “shit, I’m wasted.” He’s looking at Harry like he’s waiting for him to chime in too, like Harry missed the part where they agreed to pretend this was all just some drunken shenanigans and not the only thing Harry has been able to think about for the better part of the last two years. Harry doesn’t move. 

Louis’ jaw tightens and he ducks out of the bracket of Harry’s arms, sliding away from him and back toward the counter. Harry hears a glass clatter against the sink and then the tap starts flowing, and when it stops Louis says, voice soft and sure, like it’s settled, like he’s getting ready to go back into the other room to rejoin the party, “we can’t do this again.”

Harry keeps both palms pressed against the wall, doesn’t want to turn around and see whatever expression is on Louis’ face.

“Harry,” Louis says, but it sounds like a question and Harry can’t think of any answers. “ _Harry_ ,” Louis says again, and without warning Harry feels a stupid drunken urge to cry.

“Lou,” he says, and he might actually _be_ crying, he’s not really sure. He turns, sees Louis standing against the sink looking absolutely _wrecked_ , and he doesn’t understand how this went so wrong so fast. “I need - ” he doesn’t know how to finish the sentence, just bites down on his lip and blinks quickly to try and shove down the impulse to kiss Louis again, to pretend they’re allowed to be these people, that they’re allowed to have this. 

“We should...” Louis murmurs, stepping forward hesitantly, fingers skimming Harry’s wrist even though he looks terrified himself. “We should talk about this.” Harry hears the ‘ _again’_ that Louis doesn’t say, and feels his face flush hot with shame.

They make it into Liam’s bedroom and Harry suddenly feels a lot less drunk. He sits down on the bed and tries not to feel disappointed when Louis doesn’t join him.

“This is my fault,” Louis says, and Harry can’t even begin to process the stupidity of that statement. “I shouldn’t have - ” Louis starts, stops. Harry feels like neither of them finish any of their sentences anymore. The thought makes him want to laugh, but mostly he wants Louis to stop talking. “I shouldn’t have let things go this far,” Louis says to the ground between them. He has his arms wrapped tight around his stomach and Harry wants to pry his fingers up, twist them with his own, kiss the skin on the insides of his wrists. “I mean, you know...how I feel…” he glances cagily at Harry. “But this band, right? It’s...it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to us, and, _fuck_ , Harry,” he scrubs a hand over his face and sways on his feet. 

Harry’s teeth are pressed together so tightly he feels like they might snap. “How do you feel?” he asks, voice quiet. He wants to hear Louis say it, just once.

“Don’t,” Louis responds instantly, mouth set in an unhappy line.

“No, no,” Harry shoots back, voice edging on anger now, “you wanted to talk, right? How do you _feel_?”

Louis is glaring at him now, a red flush high on his cheeks. “You _know_ ,” he bites out acidly.

Harry opens his mouth to argue, but before he can say anything Louis is blinking fiercely, arms crossing protectively across his chest, shoulders drawing together in a way that Harry knows means he’s not actually angry, just scared. It reminds him of the night of Niall’s party, the way Louis had looked at him when they’d finally made it to the bedroom, half their clothes shed in the hallway on the way there, the way he’d stopped laughing and soothed Harry’s frantic movements, slowed them down and taken his time peeling off the rest of their clothes, bright eyes locked with Harry’s the entire time. The way he’d pushed his thumbs into the back of Harry’s jaw, kissed him slow, and deep, and lingering, whispered how gorgeous Harry was into the dark mop of Harry’s hair like it was a secret, told him how much he wanted this, how much he wanted _Harry_ , how much he’d always wanted him, kept up a constant stream of encouragement until Harry hadn’t been able to take it anymore, had surged up, shut him up with a fist on the back of his head and a leg hooked over his hip.

“What do you _want_ , Harry?” Louis finally asks, and he sounds tired suddenly, is pushed back against the wall like he can’t stand the thought of Harry touching him again.

Harry stares down at his knees, spreads his fingers against the sheets and says, “you.”

Louis is silent for a moment, and his voice is softer when he speaks again. “What _else_ do you want?”

Harry holds his breath, blinks and digs his thumbs into the mattress. When he looks up Louis is watching him, and Harry will never be able to lie to those eyes. “You.” 

Now _Louis_ looks like he’s about to cry, like that was the last thing he wanted to hear and Harry wishes he had just kept his mouth shut, he knows this is too fragile already without him shoving his heart in Louis’ hands every time they’re drunk and alone. He feels like he’s going to burst, or throw up, or say something he won’t be able to take back.

“Just,” Harry says desperately, “Lou, please. Just come here. I won’t, I promise. I won’t kiss you, I _promise,_ I won’t kiss you.”

Louis is still looking at him like the world is ending, and Harry doesn’t know how to make it better. He shoves himself slowly to his feet and shuffles toward Louis, hands out, eyes pleading. Louis lets Harry take his hands, lets Harry pull him back to the bed and down onto it. After what feels like an eternity where Harry doesn’t dare to breathe, Louis tucks his face into Harry’s neck, sucks in a long shaking breath, and starts to cry.

Harry feels his own eyes brim with tears immediately, murmurs nonsensically into Louis’ hair, “no, no, shhh, I got you, please don’t cry, Lou, I’m so sorry.” He feels guilty and panicky and he knows, somehow, they aren’t going to be able to fake their way past this the way they have everything else. He tugs Louis in tighter, feels his chest heave with a sob and tries to memorize what it feels like to have Louis in his arms.

\--

Louis doesn’t really look at him the same after that.

Harry wakes up in Liam’s bed with a trashcan next to him and a sour taste in his mouth. For a moment he can’t remember what happened the night before, but then he sees Louis curled up on one of the armchairs across from him and it slowly starts to come back.

Louis comes back to him slower, in the weeks that follow. He keeps his distance at first, wary, but sometimes it feels like all they know how to do is orbit each other, and they fall back into rhythms that are muscle memory before Louis remembers that he’s supposed to be watching himself more times than Harry can count.

Harry feels greedy for it every time Louis looks at him, talks to him, _touches_ him. He drinks up Louis’ attention like he’ll never get it again every time Louis lets his guard down, tries not to take too much, but he’s hardly ever been subtle. Louis is careful with him in a way he never has been before, but Harry will take it, Harry will take anything he can get.

\--

Every single time Harry tells Louis he means it.

Two weeks after they’d met each other, Louis dancing around a field kicking the football and celebrating his goal Harry had tackled him, looped an arm around Louis’ neck and stuck his tongue out at Liam and Niall over his shoulder. “I _love_ you,” he’d beamed, high off the sunlight and the game and four new best friends.

Fifteen minutes after they’d gotten off the X Factor stage, eyes burning with tears and hands shaking with disappointment, Harry let Louis pull him into a hug, let him whisper _we’ll be okay we’ll be okay we’ll be okay_ into Harry’s skin until the words started to lose meaning, started to be the only thing that mattered until – “ _I love you_ ,” Harry had sobbed back, gripped Louis tighter and pressed his face into his neck.

The night of Niall’s birthday party, drunk and turned on, scrambling against the sheets as Louis pressed down on him, lip caught between his teeth and eyes fluttering shut, flying open again and mouth gasping – breathing out desperately, “god, _Lou_ , love you I love you I love you.”

Now. Louis is laughing into the camera, chin against his palm and foot tapping against Harry’s ankle.

“I love you,” Harry says. He feels it deep in his bones, solid and true and the words feel more real than any that have ever passed his lips.

“Aw, thanks mate,” Louis grins, elbowing Harry fondly in the ribs, one eye slanting cautiously toward the camera in a warning. “Love you too.”

For the first time ever, it doesn’t feel like enough.

\--

“Mate,” Zayn says, and Harry looks up from where he’s squinting down at his phone in the green room, trying to decipher a text from Liam. He can tell immediately that this is not a conversation Zayn wants to be having, which means it’s definitely not a conversation Harry wants to have. 

“Uh,” Harry says, glancing around for a way to escape. He finds none and instead tries to send Zayn a winning smile, praying he can sidestep whatever’s about to be brought up. He feels like he knows what’s about to be brought up.

Zayn snorts. “Righto, let’s get it over with, then.”

Harry watches uneasily as Zayn settles into the chair across the table from him, throws a package of loose tobacco from his back pocket onto it and shimmies some rolling papers out of his sleeve. Zayn waits until he has the first cigarette filled and rolled before he looks back up at Harry, tongue darting out deftly to wet and seal the paper before he sets it aside and starts in on the next one.

“So you and Louis, eh?” he finally says, eyebrows lifting a bit in what Harry takes to be mock surprise. 

Harry examines his hands, brings one up so he can bite at the ragged nail on his thumb, shrugs defensively and mutters, “what about it.”

Zayn looks like he wants to laugh at him, but also like he pities him far too much to do that. “I’m gonna say this because I know Louis can’t, or won’t, or whatever,” he says, leaning back in his chair and eyeing Harry over the table. “Cut and dry, Haz, there’s a line and you both have crossed right the fuck over it. Heard of the saying ‘don’t shit where you eat’? Sayings like that don’t exist for no reason.”

“Charming,” Harry mutters, twisting his lip between his teeth. “Thanks for the nugget of wisdom, Professor Malik.”

Zayn shakes his head. “I know you two are…” he flounders briefly, then picks up a new skin and starts again, “I know it’s pretty deep, okay? Between you two. Obviously, I can see it. I know it’s hard to stop sometimes, even when you know that’s the right thing to do.”

Harry can feel his face flushing red with embarrassment. The fact that Zayn is here at all, talking about this, that the boys and god knows who else all _know_ , can tell how pathetically fucked up Harry is about Louis makes him want to curl in on himself. None of this would be happening if Harry didn’t _want_ so much. He thinks about the first time they performed What Makes You Beautiful live, the way his hands had shook and his voice had caught as he stood center stage, alone. He thinks about every performance after that, how Louis had roped the rest of them into darting forward mid-solo to dump an ice cube down the back of his shirt, press sweaty hands in distracting places, let Harry let _go_ of the fear of letting them all down. Harry thinks about the way Louis looks at him in the mornings sometimes, eyes soft and gentle, how nothing in the world has ever felt as right as kissing him, how every time he talks about his future Harry is in it. _Pretty deep_ , Zayn had said. 

Harry’s head shoots up and he breathes through his nose, fingers tightening into fists in his lap. “What would you know about it?” he snaps, not caring that Zayn doesn’t deserve the aggression, that he’s just trying to help.

“Look,” Zayn signs, “I get it, okay, relationships when you’re famous are fucking hard, innit?”

“Right,” Harry sneers, “because you and Perrie are exactly like _me and Louis_.”

Zayn stares at him for a moment, jaw working, and then he scrapes his chair over so it’s right next to Harry’s, puts both hands on Harry’s knees and says, “I love you both too, you know, but you’re not sixteen anymore, Harry. And Louis has made up his mind. If you think you’re doing him or your relationship with him any good by pushing it like this, I’d advise you think again. _That’s_ the bottom line.”

He pushes back his chair and scoops up the finished cigarettes, standing and turning to glance back at Harry one last time. “Fucking, talk to him,” he mutters, “when neither of you are shitfaced, preferably.” Then he turns to the door and walks back out.

Harry rips viciously at a hangnail with his teeth, and kicks out at the chair Zayn had been sitting on, mouthing a silent ‘ _ow_ ’when his big toe hits it head on.

Zayn is right, of course. Harry fucking hates it when Zayn is right.

\--

Harry packs an overnight bag and calls their personal driver to come pick him up.

“Going somewhere?” Louis asks, wandering into his bedroom, sweatpants slung low on his hips and towel draped over his head.

Harry swallows hard and starts repacking his bag. “Yeah. Thought I’d go stay with Caroline. Give you and Eleanor the house to yourself tonight.”

“Oh,” Louis says, suddenly guarded. “That’s not…you don’t have to, you know. She wasn’t even coming over, and even then, we should stay somewhere else. I don’t want – ”

“ – no,” Harry interrupts, spinning to face Louis. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just…Caroline invited me over and I figured it would be nice for the two of you to spend some time together without me third-wheeling.”

Harry feels so stupid, like they’re trying to talk around the elephant in the room even though they both know exactly what’s going on, but he needs Louis to be okay. He needs Louis to stay. If this is the only way to do it, Harry will do it.

Louis steps forward and tugs his hands away from where they’re folding a shirt for the third time. “ _Harry_.” There’s something in his voice that Harry doesn’t want to understand. He sounds like he knows what Harry is trying to do, sees the boundaries Harry is trying to build back up for them, and he’s as embarrassed as he is grateful for it.

It’s all Harry needs to hear. He forces a laugh that doesn’t quite hit casual. “Don’t worry about it, Lou. Call her. Make her some dinner. Try not to burn the block down. I’ll be back in the morning.”

When he gets back the next morning it’s to find Louis and Eleanor stretched across the couch, both still fully clothed but pressed together, Louis’ grip on her tight even in his sleep.

Harry blinks rapidly and turns around, closing the door quietly behind him as he heads for Niall’s.

\--

Harry goes back that afternoon, only when he’s sure Eleanor will be gone and Louis will be dragging himself out of bed.

Louis groans in appreciation when he sees the breakfast Harry has spread out on the kitchen island, and Harry jerks his head around quickly to hide the blush he knows is spreading across his cheeks and down his neck. He hates that it has an effect on him, hates even more that Louis is pretending not to know that.

“So,” he says, pulling a smile back onto his face as he loads up a plate with bacon and eggs and slides it in front of Louis, “good time last night?”

Louis presses his palms together in a quick gesture of thanks and then digs in, only leaning back to swallow and answer when he’s halfway done with the meal. “It was...” he pauses, looking carefully at Harry, “it was good.”

Harry leans against the countertop, fiddling with a mug of tea that he meant to heat up. “You sound surprised.”

Louis shrugs, and kind of peeks up at Harry from the side of his eye. “Yeah, well, you know. It just feels different. Like maybe it’s going somewhere.” 

“So she’s your girlfriend now?” Harry asks. It’s not really a question. She’s met Jay and his sisters and half the time they’re in London Louis manages to end up in Manchester even if it’s only for a few hours. Harry had seen it coming a mile away, but that does nothing to stop the ache starting low in his stomach.

Louis hunches his shoulders up around his ears and tucks his fingers into his sleeves. “I don’t know,” he says with an attempt at a laugh, “I mean, who really needs labels these days anyway, right?”

“Don’t start with the hipster bullshit,” Harry snaps, and it comes out sharper than he meant it to.

Louis frowns at him, suddenly on the defensive. “You’re the one who brought it up, Harry,” he reminds him, lips tugging downward like he doesn’t know how to handle Harry like this.

“I’m not - “ Harry starts, throwing up his hands and turning away, “whatever.”

He knows he’s being unreasonable, knows this was the exact reason he left for the night in the first place, but it turns out that doesn’t make it any easier. He feels Louis’ fingers on his wrist before he even realizes the other boy has moved from his seat.

“Hey,” Louis says, quick and apologetic, “I know this is crazy...” he trails off helplessly, then says in a low voice, “I’m really sorry. If things were different...”

Harry feels his body sag against the contact, turning around to face Louis with what he hopes isn’t a blatantly bitter grin, all the irrational anger draining from him at the sight of Louis’ obvious distress. “No, I’m sorry,” he says, scrunching up his nose, “I’m being an idiot, again. Ignore me, please.”

“Never,” Louis’ reply is instant. “Just - you know...we can’t, right?”

Harry breathes. Skids his thumb across Louis’ knuckles and watches as Louis lets it stay there. “Yeah,” he says finally. “Yeah, of course. Everything’s good.”

\--

Louis doesn’t actually confirm it until they’re sat in front of a camera and it’s no longer _casual_ but _yeah, I’m in a relationship_.

Harry knew it was coming, but it still feels new, like someone dug a shovel deep into his chest and rooted it all up until there was nothing left.

\-- 

The next time Ed throws a party Harry takes the boys with him, but loses Louis to a game of Kings Cup and doesn’t see him for a few more hours. By the time Harry tracks him down the older boy is past the good level of drunk – normally bright eyes are hooded and his movements are loose and sluggish.

“Let’s get you home, yeah?” Harry mutters, slipping an arm around Louis’ waist and guiding him toward the door, because despite everything going on it’s not even a question that they’re always going to look out for each other. There’s a cab waiting for someone outside and he nudges Louis into it before sliding in after, gives the driver the address and then turns to make sure Louis is still breathing.

He’s slumped against the far side of the cab, chin tucked down to his chest and eyes closed.

“Sleepy?” Harry asks, fighting a smile at the image.

Louis hums in response and yanks his head up, turning to blink at Harry before letting himself slump down and across the back seat so his head is resting in Harry’s lap. He mumbles something incoherently into Harry’s pants and then is silent for the rest of the ride, letting Harry drag him out when they get to the building and not speaking again until they’re actually in the apartment and Harry is helping him out of his shoes.

“Fine, it’s fine just leave it,” he mumbles when Harry moves to get his shirt off.

Harry laughs and keeps undoing the buttons, batting Louis’ hands impatiently away when he tries to stop him.

“Seriously, Harry,” Louis says, tightening fingers around Harry’s wrists. “Sleep, just gotta sleep now. The shirt – my shirt will be fine, okay, I promise.”

Harry gives up on the shirt and twists his arms to lace his fingers together with Louis’. “You promise?”

“ _Promise_ ,” Louis nods, “now c’mon. Sleep.”

Harry doesn’t bother protesting when Louis pulls him down into the bed with him, just shimmies out of his jeans and tries to ignore the way Louis’ hand feels when it settles on his chest, fingers clenching into the material of his shirt and then letting go again.

“Harry,” Louis whispers.

Harry closes his eyes. “What?”

Louis’ voice is sandpaper rough and his fingers are light light light like the air in Harry’s lungs. “Harry, Harry, Hazza, I love you. You – you know that. I _love_ you.”

Harry’s head feels heavy and he can’t breathe, he can’t -

\--

It comes down to this. It doesn’t matter if Louis loves him, he won’t be unfaithful in a relationship and they both know it. It brings things to a grinding halt in Harry’s head, knowing that if he slips up again, if he makes another wrong move he’s liable to lose far more than his dignity and a sawed off chunk of his heart.

It makes him cautious, _finally_. He downloads dozens of new games on his phone to keep his hands busy, starts reaching out to old friends to try and distract himself, goes golfing with Niall and calls his mum on a regular basis.

He starts writing songs. They’re not for the band, they feel too personal, too raw and honest to be sung by anyone but him. He’s in his bedroom tinkering with a melody he’s been struggling with one night, trying out a smattering of lyrics he has scribbled in a notebook when he senses a change in the air and swings his head around - freezing as he sees Louis in the doorway. Harry hadn’t even heard him get home.

“It sounds good,” Louis says softly, opens his mouth like he wants to say more and then shuts it again.

 _It’s for you_ , Harry doesn’t say. _It’s always for you_.

He’s learning.

\--

“Harold!” Niall shouts, bounding into the room they’ve been using for rehearsal and looking around wildly until he finds where Harry is half hiding behind a sound screen. “Ah, there ya are,” he grins mischievously. “We’re being summoned.”

Harry grumbles halfheartedly and slides his phone into his pocket, clambering up while Niall bounces impatiently on the balls of his feet.

“Who’s doing the summoning?” he asks dutifully, trailing behind as Niall leads him out and into the hallway. 

“Oh, you know,” Niall starts casually, and then out of nowhere he screams “AMBUSH!” at the top of his lungs and Zayn and Liam are suddenly there, Zayn yanking the door to a broom closet open and Liam hurtling into Harry’s back, shoving him into the closet and slamming it shut with a bang.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Harry swears, banging on the closed door frantically as he hears the distinct click of a lock. “This isn’t funny, guys!”

“Locked in a closet as well, I see,” says a dry voice, and Harry spins to see Louis sitting on the floor next to an assortment of cleaning supplies, head tipped back against the wall, eyes trained on him.

“Ah,” Harry nods sagely. “Ambush, I get it now.”

Louis looks like he’s biting down on laughter. “Yes, apparently our attempts to handle our own shit have been unsatisfactory,” he says, quirking an eyebrow at Harry. “To the point of intervention.”

Louis doesn’t look like he’s freaking out about the situation, so Harry resolves firmly to do the same. “Well,” he says lamely, eyeing an overturned mop bucket and then settling on the floor across from Louis with a grimace. “I suppose we can be pretty fucking annoying.”

Louis laughs, catches himself like he’s surprised by it. “Yes,” he says, staring straight back at Harry. “I suppose so.”

There’s a brief silence, and then Harry tilts his head at Louis - he’s tired of feeling so fucking _wounded_ all the time. He thinks maybe Louis feels the same way. “I can’t change how I feel,” he says.

Louis blinks back at him. “I’m not asking you to.”

“Right,” Harry responds. “You’re just asking me not to talk about it.”

Louis sighs, and kicks one leg up so he can wrap his arm around his knee. “I’m asking you not to make this any harder than it already is.”

Harry can feel himself starting to pout, but he holds the eye contact steady, says, “What if it’s worth it?”

“And what if it’s _not_ , Harry,” Louis counters, shakes his head and instantly backtracks a bit, “what if it doesn’t work? This isn’t just our lives we’re dealing with here.” He waves his hand in a motion that broadly encompasses the closet, the locked door, the boys probably pressed up against it on the other side. “This is all of them, our families, our careers, this is the rest of our lives we’re talking about.”

“This is _us,_ ” Harry insists stubbornly. 

“But it’s not _just_ us,” Louis corrects, “what if we broke up, what then?”

“We - as in you and me?” Harry questions, eyes narrowing in on him.

Louis looks momentarily caught off guard. “You and me, the band,” he says, recovering, “either way, it’s putting too much on the line. Are you really willing to risk it?”

“Risk you and me,” Harry asks quietly, “or the band?”

Louis doesn’t answer. “Look,” he sighs, and Harry can tell he’s choosing his words carefully. “I’m not saying never, you know?” He glances quickly up at Harry and then away again, and Harry feels a sudden rush of warmth, a lightness in his chest that he tries desperately to stamp down on. Louis is blushing. “And I’m not saying soon,” he hurries on, clearly not trying to give Harry the wrong impression. “I mean _at all_. Not even in the next ten, twenty years, maybe, but...”

Harry can feel his cheeks dimpling, shoves his hands under his bum to try and keep them still and to himself. It's not an ideal situation, or anywhere close, but it's the closest he's gotten so far. Maybe, down the line is better than nothing at all. “Okay,” he breathes, nodding. “I’ve spent the entire time we’ve known each other pretending not to be in love with you, I can handle a bit longer.”

“Goddamn it, Harry,” Louis groans, dropping his head into his hands and tugging at his hair. “You’ve gotta stop saying shit like that, I am holding on by an actual _thread_ right now.”

Harry lets out a little burst of laughter, shrugs apologetically and warns, “I’m probably still gonna try to kiss you, eventually.”

“I probably won’t let you,” Louis shoots back immediately, leg stretching out to kick at Harry’s trainer.

“But someday…” Harry says, lets it trail off as Louis looks at him with a small smile.

“Someday,” Louis repeats, eyes sweeping down to Harry’s lips.

It feels like a promise.


End file.
